


Neckties, Contracts, High Voltage

by cormallen



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Bondage, Breathplay, Dubious Consent, Knifeplay, M/M, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 15:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cormallen/pseuds/cormallen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If someone pays for you to have a face to face meeting with Jared Padalecki, chances are, you either did something really bad -- or something really good. Either way, you're in for a rough night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neckties, Contracts, High Voltage

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [loolookitty](http://loolookitty.livejournal.com) for helping me work this out and [mickeym](http://mickeym.livejournal.com) for hand-holding, cheerleading, read-through and edits.

If you ask him what he does for a living, Jared has answers aplenty.

 

Labor relations liaison. Direct solutions specialist. Client communications facilitator. Customer security coordinator. Accountability agent.

 

All of those cover it pretty well without saying anything at all.

 

Most of the time, he doesn't bother with a title. "Hi, I'm Jared. I'm in HR," he says, or "I solve problems," and none of those are lies, either, at least not according to his business cards, HPM Executive Solutions embossed shiny black on fourteen point eggshell.

HPM isn't a name like Deloitte or Pricewaterhouse. It doesn't make the S&amp;P or the Fortune 500, doesn't buy billboard space along I-78, and its glass and mahogany offices in Midtown are nothing but a well-staffed, nine to five front. Jared hasn't been to his desk in months.

"It's mostly fieldwork. Travel, see the sights, meet interesting people... Don't get me wrong: it gets pretty stressful sometimes. But I'm real good at my job."

He is.

"You, on the other hand, aren't. Sorry, man, but you left a trail a blind guy could follow. Now, listen, we can do this a coupla ways. First -- "

"You're gonna kill me. Oh, god. Oh, fuck, you're gonna kill me."

"That's one way," Jared says, and drags the blade over the man's trembling face, knife point neatly bisecting a fat drop of sweat on his temple.

He's lying. He's real good at that, too. He's had years of practice.

The man tied to the chair gulps down air with a thick whoosh, mouth half-opened, pink tongue frantically moistening dry, cracked lips. His eyes are red, his cheeks wet.

"Please. Please, I'll do anything," he whines, "god, please, just tell me what you want, and I'll -- please, anything!"

"That's another way," Jared nods, crouching down. The man's cuffed hands clench on the arms of the chair, knuckles going desperately white. He licks his lips again, a terrified, reflexive gesture as Jared leans in, brushes a stray strand of hair out of the man's face with latex gloved fingers.

"Anything," the man promises again, shuddering. Jared wraps a hand around the back of his skull and gently pulls forward. Up close like this, he can feel the man's wheezing breath on his cheek.

"Hold still for me now," he coos, and carefully presses the knife point into soft skin, waits for the trickle of red to stain the man's collar. "Good." He wipes the knife off on the man's dove gray, pinstriped vest. "Now, let's talk about what I want. Tomorrow, you're gonna go back to Weston. Feel free to clock in early. You're gonna put the papers back in the safe, along with that flash drive and all of those copies you made. Then you should really ask your management for a few days off. Take a vacation, go somewhere nice. Relax! You could use it. You're practically green -- that can't be healthy."

"And you won't -- you won't -- " the man's mouth works open and closed, like a hooked fish's, and Jared shakes his head.

"You do this right, and you never have to see me again, unless you're a hell of a lot stupider than I thought. Hmm? What's that?"

"I can't just show up there with the files. They'll have me arrested on the spot."

"Guess I did give you too much credit. Think about it. If they were interested in that, would we be having this chat right about now? This your daughter you got in your wallet here? Cute kid."

"You wouldn't. Oh, god. She has nothing to do with this, please, you wouldn't -- "

"Like I said," Jared nods, and slides the blade back into a small sheath. "You do this right, and you don't even have to worry about it."

He hates doing it like this, simple and crude, the sweaty stink of fear leaking from every pore of the man's skin. Threatening a child's too easy, and not even remotely interesting. Jared doesn't do kids. He doesn't have many lines, but that one's a definite. No kids. No serious wetwork -- death or permanent injury. No patsies, taking the fall for someone else's fuck ups. It doesn't matter that HPM has plenty of guys who'll do all of that and more besides; Jared's got his particulars. He's reasonably sure that every single person who ends up having this chat with him thoroughly deserves it. So do the guys who pay for it, and sooner or later, someone else will pay for them to have the same exact one. Everything else isn't his job to worry about.

He undoes the man's ankle cuffs and pulls him up and out of the chair.

"Walk. You still remember how, right? Don't worry; I'll help you out."

Jared guides the man across the warehouse floor, the hobble still keeping his steps slow and shambling. The car alarm makes a quick, abortive noise as he clicks the trunk release button on the remote.

"I'm glad you decided to take some responsibility and return the files, Michael. Makes this ugly situation a little easier on all of us. Get in."

He hauls the man into the trunk and makes sure all the restraints are secure.

"I assume I don't need to tell you what's gonna happen if you try to call the police, right? Nothing personal, of course. Just makin' sure I do my job right."

He's lying again. He likes it when it gets personal. Not the kind of personal where he cares about what gets his jobs to this point, what they do to end up in his car trunk, in his cuffs, shaking and shivering and coming apart. When he was just starting out -- when the knives were mostly just for show -- it used to disgust him a little, how a bit of rope, a blindfold and a ten minute drive could reduce people to their most basic. How a touch of gloved hands stripped them bare, until all that was left was a quivering, broken down mess that didn't deserve to get away with anything.

People say the funniest things sometimes, when they think he's moments away from opening their arteries or snapping their necks. Confess affairs and indiscretions and illegitimate children, hates and loves and _I never told her_s. Stolen money, wasted time, lifetimes of lies -- Jared's heard it all.

And of course, there's always the begging. Most of the time, just hearing it is enough. Every once in a while Jared takes them up on their _I'll do anything_s, makes them think that what they do with their hands and their hips and their mouths has some bearing on their lot. It doesn't. He's never seen one of the wetwork guys do their stuff, but he's pretty sure they don't bother leaving the time for begging. He thinks if he was going to pay to have someone killed, chances are, he wouldn't want them seeing it coming.

Jared stops the car by the interstate overpass, pops the trunk and hauls the man out, shoves a handcuff key into his cold, clumsy hands. He's gone, engine revving, before the man's had a chance to tug off his blindfold. Some jobs, it doesn't matter if they see his face, but most of the time, he keeps himself anonymous. It's probably the only part of his work he still hasn't learned to enjoy.

When he first started at HPM, his handler told him he had a trustworthy face. A big guy with an aww shucks vibe and an open, dimpled smile, overgrown hair curling soft around his ears making him look like a college kid. A low, buttery drawl when he opened his mouth, and he used it all during those first couple of years, flirting, cajoling, charming, holding hands and coming up for nightcaps so he could lift passwords and alarm codes, plant photos, swipe keys and papers. Prep work for the Jareds of that time. He bulked up when he graduated to the intimidate, threaten and assault level, when that trustworthy face got a bit too well known to be useful.

Not everyone made the transition, electing instead to cash out, sign the non-disclosure agreement and move on to a regular, HPM-free life. Jared stayed on. He still never gets his hair cut on time, still has the same too-long eyelashes and dimples when he smiles, but he doubts anyone would call him trustworthy now. Not unless he really makes the effort. Most of the time, Jared doesn't bother.

He drops the car off at the parking garage and calls in the job before walking back to the apartment they rent for him on the corner of First and A. He's asleep by three. Harris has the next job in his inbox by the time he gets up in the morning.

Jared scans the need-to-know over breakfast, a tomato and cheese-loaded omelet with wheat toast and coffee that he brews in a French press instead of a drip pot. In the beginning, the need-to-knows galled him, even though Harris usually provided all the information he could wish for. The idea that someone else knew all the ins and outs but passed him the distilled, filtered version made him feel helpless, too far out of control.

"Don't tell me about plausible deniability. I'm pretty sure we're all too deep inside for plausible deniability."

"Wasn't going to," Harris shrugged, and plucked invisible lint from her jacket. "You're good at getting a feel for people, Jared. You know what will work on who as soon as you have contact. You don't want to clutter that with too many preconceptions. And I get you what you need; trust me. I do well when you do well, remember?"

Even so, the lowdown on Jensen Ackles, the FC of Bluepoint, is surprisingly vague. He looks good in the photos, tall, athletic, high cheekbones, short spiky hair and big green eyes with stupidly long lashes. Jared googles the position of financial controller, eyes catching on the words _senior management_, _accounting oversight_ and _fraud prevention_, checks the rest of his paperwork, and calls Harris again.

"So what is this guy, a fraud or a whistleblower?"

"Read what I sent you; it's all in there. They want a warning shot, Jared, so, obviously, there's suspicion."

"That's a hell of a warning shot," Jared says, and on the other end of the line, Harris chuckles.

"Don't say I never did anything for you. I tagged it yours the second I saw it."

"Yeah, yeah, you practically spoil me. I'll check in tomorrow, same time."

Jared goes through the photographs one more time, pausing at the one of Ackles on his morning jog, t-shirt riding up to show a sliver of smooth, flat stomach. Maybe he's thinking in stereotypes, but Ackles doesn't look like he should be working in anything having to do with accounting oversight or financial ledgers and columns of numbers adding up to profit or loss. Someone should be taking pictures of him all the time, and not grainy surveillance shots like the ones Jared's looking at right now. He thinks if he saw a magazine with Ackles on the cover, he might buy it, or at least flip through to the feature in the check out line.

He likes Ackles even better in person. He looks good in his suit, all smooth, clean lines, neat black tie Windsor-knotted around his throat; Jared's already wondering what it'll feel like under his hands. The tie, he decides, is going to work well enough as a blindfold.

Jared tries to use his targets' own things against them whenever possible. It doesn't work on everyone, but the thought of their arms tied together by their own belt, the thing they mundanely put on and buckled every morning now rendering them helpless drives some people completely crazy. Jared is willing to bet his favorite balisong knife that Jensen Ackles is one of those people. He's not wearing a belt, but Jared can see the narrow lines of suspenders when his suit jacket flares open. Jared likes suspenders: they're so very versatile.

He watches Ackles make his way across the parking lot, pulling out a lighter as he goes, and a crumpled cigarette pack from his leather bag. That's a bit of a surprise; Jared hadn't pegged him for a smoker, not with the majority of the file shots showing Ackles running, playing ball and working out. Yet here he is, flicking the lighter and taking a hungry, deep breath, cherry glowing between his fingers. His twitchy, nervous fingers, Jared realizes as Ackles checks the time -- first on his wristwatch, then once more on his phone, then looks around, peering intently into the darkened spaces between the parked cars. He's expecting something, Jared thinks, quickly reconsidering his method of acquisition. Ask a spooked enough guy for a light or the time and you're just asking for trouble, especially if you're the spook he's waiting for, whether he knows it or not. Maybe you'll shut him up and knock him out quickly enough, but maybe you won't, and there's no reason to risk a noisy struggle when you can just wait for that cigarette to burn out, and ambush your target from the back.

The latex gloves crinkle pleasantly as Jared pulls them out his pocket, snapping them on one by one. He moves between the cars quickly and quietly, crouching down right behind Jensen's grey Volvo, and listens for the footsteps, the squeak of the deactivating car alarm, the locks snapping up and the motor starting. It's as simple as one, two, three after that, a practiced spring to his feet, one arm snaking around Jensen Ackles's ribcage, the other forcing his head into the car door, hard. Ackles grunts out a small, miserable noise and goes slack in Jared's arms; he smells of cigarette smoke, a little bit of sweat, and a spicy, sharp cologne Jared doesn't recognize. Then again, Jared's never been a big cologne kind of guy.

Off goes the Volvo's engine; Jared pockets Jensen's keys, pulls out his own, and pops the trunk. That one's a classic he doesn't like to deviate from. He runs down the checklist -- the sturdy gag going between Jensen's full, bitten lips, the cuffs pulling his wrists together behind his back, the second pair of cuffs for his ankles, Jensen's tie, knot undone, winding around his eyes. Jared checks the tightness of the blindfold, thinks for a moment, and decides to leave the suspenders for later, when Jensen is awake and able to fully appreciate them.

Jared drives neatly and cautiously, not going too much above the speed limits, and not dashing through any yellow lights. It's a pretty short drive to the riverfront, anyway; he tells himself there's no need to chance fate, cops or accidents, not when he's got a gorgeous man tied up in his trunk. Not when he's going to what is probably his most favorite place in the city.

He pulls the car inside, past the steel and glazed glass garage doors, gets out and stretches his legs in satisfaction. He doesn't get to use the warehouse often enough; he'd stay here if he could, maybe in one of the finished rooms on the fully converted upstairs level. The first floor is still mostly utilitarian, concrete floor and drab off-gray walls, a half-done kitchen, the entryway blocked by bags of cement, stacks of tile, rows and rows of paint jars. The bathroom's simple, but completed, and there's the little furnished nook in the corner to the right, a few chairs, a dinner table, a small sofa pushed back against the wall. Jared doesn't really know what his bosses plan on doing with the warehouse when it's done. If it's done. It's looked like this for as long as Jared remembers, and for all he knows, it's going to stay perpetually under construction, finished just enough to be easy to use, easy to clean up, with the river splashing almost right next to the walls. Still, he really likes the place. He could see himself moving into one just like it, exposed heating ducts and deliberately uncovered brickwork, shiny metal staircases cabling up to the high, open ceiling. Just a little bit more, and he'll have enough to make it happen, leave behind the HPM-supplied apartments that never feel like his. Maybe after that, he'll start thinking of retirement, Jared considers, or maybe not. Of course, nobody wants to work the same job for the rest of their lives, but he has yet to find something more satisfying.

Jared pushes the table farther into the corner, rearranges the chairs and the sofa and surveys his work before going back to the trunk of the car. He hasn't heard any sounds from Jensen since he put him inside, but it's just about time for him to be coming back around.

Jensen moans low, muffled by the gag, as Jared pulls him out of the car and manhandles him to the nook, into a sturdy, hard-backed chair. His head lolls a little onto Jared's shoulder, like he's trying to keep it up but can't quite, and he starts to struggle weakly as Jared brings his hands around the back of the chair and cuffs them to the frame. Doing his legs is a bit more of a challenge; he tries kicking out as soon as Jared frees his ankles, but the blindfold makes it difficult for him to connect with anything of Jared's with enough aimed force. He manages to graze Jared's shoulder with his shined leather shoe before both his ankles are re-cuffed to the chair's legs, and Jared stands up.

His shoulder barely aches; in a few minutes, Jared won't feel it at all, but he kind of likes it that Ackles got in a small hit. There was a character in a novel he read in high school, a duelist who always let his enemies score one cut on him before he bled them out, and let the wound scar to keep a tally. And although the man in the chair isn't an enemy to be dispatched, the idea gets to Jared all the same, one print of Jensen's foot on his otherwise clean shirt sleeve.

Jensen makes noise again from behind his gag, probably trying to ask _Who the hell are you_ or _Where am I_, but it's not quite yet time for him to get a response. Instead, Jared walks around the chair, footsteps echoing deliberately loud in the large, open space, and watches Jensen test his handcuffs. Right now, Jensen kind of reminds him of the guys from the office-themed bondage porn Harris sent him once instead of an assignment, something full of wolfish CEOs and naughty secretaries. With half his face covered up by his own tie, Jensen's mouth is the only thing Jared can see clearly, stretched pink and wet around the ball gag. His biceps strain inside the sleeves of his suit, and he shuffles his legs as much as he can, trying to free them from the cuffs. Jared lets him do that until he gives up, tired, the delicate skin of his wrists more than likely burning, chafed against the hard metal.

"Satisfied you're not going anywhere? Now stop it. You're gonna make yourself bleed before I want you to," he says finally, and watches with satisfaction as Jensen jumps at the sound of his voice, yanks at the cuffs again, making them rattle.

"I said, stop," he repeats, and presses his hand under Jensen's chin, fingers pushing down into his neck just a little. He feels Jensen's pulse beating through his glove, fast and angry-scared, and squeezes his fingers harder.

"Mmph," Jensen grits through the gag, and Jared feels him go tense, shoulders pulling forward, hands pressing into desperate fists behind the back of the chair. He feels the vibration in Jensen's throat, his breath forcing itself back out of his lungs, the roll of Jensen's Adam's apple as he tries to swallow.

He lets go and steps back. Jensen's cheeks are red, flushed, a nice contrast to the stark black of the tie, and if Jared looks hard enough, he can see the prints of his fingers above Jensen's prim collar, white splotches quickly filling up with pink. Jared suddenly decides he wants to see more, right now. He was planning on taking a while to get to this part, but watching Jensen take deep, greedy breaths, like he's afraid he's about to be denied them again, makes Jared impatient. He takes the balisong out of his pocket, and lets it unfold with a satisfying snick.

He makes the first cut fast and sloppy up Jensen's arm, slicing through suit and shirtsleeve and catching skin, because Jensen yelps and fruitlessly tries to pull away again, held back this time not only by the cuffs, but by Jared's hand, landing heavily on his shoulder.

"Sorry, Jensen," Jared says, even though he isn't sorry at all. "You don't mind if I call you 'Jensen', do you? We got some time together ahead of us, be good to be on a first name basis." He pauses, like he's waiting for Jensen to respond. "Hold still for me, now."

He finishes the cut, one hand still steady on Jensen's shoulder, careful not to nick him again, the sleeve falling open in his wake. A sliver of red traces Jensen's arm from wrist to elbow. Jared swipes at the blood with a gloved finger, watches the red smear over the pale latex. The cut itself isn't deep, barely more than a scratch, and Jared follows its length with the knife one more time, a slight hint of pressure that doesn't deliver any more hurt, before moving on to Jensen's other arm.

Jared undoes the clasp of Jensen's watch and carefully unclips his suspenders, setting both down within reach. He pushes the knife through the slats of the chair to get at Jensen's back, and finishes the job with a few quick slices to his collar. Knife set aside, he grabs a handful of shirt and suit and rips, letting the remaining cloth fall to the floor.

All those jogs and push ups he saw in the file photos must have really done their thing, because Jensen looks even more gorgeous, bare from the waist up. Jared reaches out and draws his hand from Jensen's beltline up his trim belly and chest, to the hollow of his throat, pausing there to feel Jensen's breath one more time. His bloodied fingers paint thin, diluted red over Jensen's skin, and even though he can't see, Jensen shivers, goosebumps rising up on his exposed flesh.

"I'm gonna ask you some questions now, Jensen, and you're gonna nod or shake your head. Do you understand?" Jared says, letting his palm rest over Jensen's trachea, skin sliding under his hand as Jensen nods. "Good. Do you know why you're here?"

There's a pause before Jensen nods, a little incline of his head at first, and then another one, deeper and more definite.

"Good. Means we don't have to waste time talking about it. Unless you want to talk," Jared muses, and reaches for Jensen's mouth. "You want me to take your gag out?"

Jensen nods again, no hesitation this time, and Jared obliges.

"Here," he says, undoing the straps, pulling the rubber ball, spit-slick, away from Jensen's lips, and wipes at his mouth with the hand not stained with Jensen's blood.

"That was an Italian suit, asshole," Jensen rasps angrily as soon as the gag is out of his mouth, and Jared almost bursts out laughing.

"You're worried about your suit? You just took a ride in a car trunk, and now you're tied to a chair in the middle of nowhere, and you're worried about your suit? Man, I think you got your priorities a little messed up."

"I liked that suit," Jensen says, defiantly, like the gravity of the situation hasn't caught up with him at all. "Also, I need to piss."

"OK," Jared replies, without making a move. "Why are you telling me? If you need to go, then go."

"I, uh. I can't exactly get up," Jensen says. "Kind of tied to the chair here," he adds, still trying for lightness, and it's really starting to rub Jared the wrong way.

"Mmm," he grunts back noncommittally. "What do you need to get up for? Like I said, if you need to, go right ahead."

That gets the reaction he was hoping for, Jensen's mouth twitching, more high color rising in his cheeks.

"You're not serious. I can't -- I can't just -- " he trails off, and lifts his head, like he's trying to make Jared out through the blindfold. "Come on, please. Why are you doing this?"

"Thought you said you knew why you were here, Jensen," Jared says, and Jensen shakes his head.

"I did. I do. I just -- I didn't think -- "

It takes Jared three steps to get right into Jensen's face, cup his face in both hands, gentle and careful, thumb softly stroking over his chin.

"What did you think was going to happen, hmm, Jensen?" he whispers, making Jensen strain for every word. "What, you thought you were gonna get a quick slap on the wrist, and then I'd let you go? Newsflash, sweetheart. That's not on the agenda."

"Not on the agenda? You're crazy. That's not what I -- mmph," Jensen starts, cut off by Jared's hand fitting neatly over his mouth.

"You know, I'm kinda tired of you talking. Let's take a break from that for a bit," Jared says, free hand reaching back for the gag. "There we go," he nods, shoving the ball back into Jensen's mouth, and fixing it up tight.

Jensen's still trying to force words out, unintelligible noises Jared doesn't even try to understand. He starts struggling against the cuffs again, yanking at the metal hard enough that the chair scrapes across the floor, but despite the effort, all of his restraints still hold. Defeated, he miserably slumps back in the seat, and Jared pats his bare arm in approval.

"That's more like it. You're all nice and quiet, not mouthing off. Makes me wanna help you out a little. You going to behave if I undo your legs?"

Jensen nods sullenly, and Jared can almost imagine him pouting instead, if only he weren't gagged. He takes out his knife again, pressing the point briefly, but decisively hard, over the vein pulsing in Jensen's throat.

"Yeah, you'll behave," he says, swapping the knife for the cuff keys.

Jensen stretches his legs carefully, as if testing them out, while Jared detaches his wrists from the chair, still keeping them cuffed together behind his back.

"Watch your step," Jared tells him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "Little more. Now turn left. Good." He walks Jensen all the way across the warehouse floor, to the little bathroom, and steers him inside until he's facing the toilet.

"Now, it's going to be kinda hard for you, since you can't see or move your hands much, so I'm going to help you out just a little more, OK?"

"Mmmph," Jensen moans emphatically, which could be either a yes or a no, and Jared doesn't wait for more. He moves a hand to the front of Jensen's neat black trousers and undoes the buttons, finds the zipper, and tugs down. Jensen freezes under the touch, even his breaths going shallow and quiet, his whole body a taut line pressed into Jared, feeling like it's about to snap. Jared wraps his other arm more tightly around Jensen while he gets his pants unzipped, pulls at the cloth until it slides down messily around Jensen's ankles.

"Step," he says, and Jensen obeys, lifts one foot first and then the other, and Jared kicks his pants away. Jensen's still wearing his shined dress shoes, and socks with a little dot pattern, and they look more than a little ridiculous with his black boxer briefs, but Jared's not really paying much attention to that. He can feel Jensen's dick through the soft cotton of his underwear as he tugs more buttons free, and under the thin cover, Jensen's half-hard, the firming head of his cock peeking out through the gap in his fly.

Of course it's adrenaline, coursing through Jensen's system, but it sends a warm spark through Jared's belly, enough that he snaps off the latex glove before he finishes with Jensen's fly and pulls his cock out.

"Relax, Jensen. Relax, and let go," he says softly, and Jensen huffs out a sudden, loud breath, cock pulsing slightly in Jared's grip.

It's only a few drops hitting the bowl at first before Jensen finally lets go with a full stream, sharp sound in the quiet of the warehouse and an even sharper scent, not exactly unpleasant but not something Jared's accustomed to, either. He's never done this on a job before; he's threatened, and he's admittedly had a mark or two piss themselves, terrified, but he's never held another man's dick quite like this. Jensen is hot and velvet-smooth in his hand, another miserable little noise escaping from his gagged mouth as Jared shakes him off and carefully tucks him back into his shorts.

"Good," he praises, and Jensen shudders, tucks his already covered face into Jared's arm, like he doesn't want to chance seeing even a sliver of what's happening.

"Come on," Jared says. "Back into the chair you go."

He pulls Jensen's shoes and socks off before latching his ankles back to the chair legs, and Jensen shuffles his feet tentatively on the cold concrete floor. But he hesitates with the handcuff key, even though Jensen holds his arms obediently still and ready over the back of the chair. Jensen's fingers are long and graceful, with perfectly trimmed and groomed nails, and they make Jared think of too many indecently appealing things. And it's been so damn long since he's allowed himself to indulge even a little.

"You know," he says, running his fingers over Jensen's cuffed wrist, feeling for the thin, breakable bones within, "seems to me like I did you a favor even though you didn't deserve it. Thinking maybe you owe me one, Jensen, and since I'm such a nice guy, I'm even going to let it be something you'll enjoy. Are you left or right-handed?"

Jensen shakes his head and slurs something, reminding Jared that he can't answer properly.

"Just move whichever hand it is," Jared suggests. Jensen flexes his right hand slightly, makes a fist and then unfolds it again in response.

"I'm gonna let you have your right hand back for a bit," Jared says, readjusting the cuffs. "You try to take off the gag or the blindfold, and I'll break your fingers, one by one."

Jensen shakes his head again and makes a quick, urgent noise, like maybe he's trying to convince Jared he'll do nothing of the sort. Jared decides he'll buy it for the time being. He brings Jensen's free hand forward, letting it rest right over the buttons of Jensen's boxer-briefs.

"Looked like you were just about ready to go back there," he says. "Want to see you jerk off for me."

Jensen reacts just as well as Jared was expecting him to: head shaking furiously and cheeks flushing the color of an overripe tomato.

"No?" Jared clarifies, and Jensen continues shaking his head until Jared grips his right hand between both of his. "Remember what I said about broken fingers? It's gonna hurt a lot more to do it like that. Come on, sweetheart. Want me to help you get started?"

He undoes Jensen's fly, deja vu except for the way Jensen's clenching his hand the entire time, fingers biting into the meat of his thigh.

"Come on," Jared says again, stroking him lightly through the fabric. Jensen is getting hard again, despite his hesitation, and he lifts his hand tentatively when Jared pulls out his cock and rubs at the head with the heel of his palm.

"Yeah," Jared says, guiding Jensen's fingers between his legs, wrapping them around Jensen's cock, his hand covering Jensen's, slowly sliding both their fingers up and down. Jensen whines, but responds almost immediately, cock filling, firming up more, a little drop of wet beading up on the tip, and it looks good enough that Jared wants to bend down and lick it right up.

"How do you like it, hmm? Hard and fast? Taking your time nice and slow? Show me, Jensen; want to see you," he says, gently tracing his hand down to Jensen's balls, feeling their weight, their heat, the delicate crinkle of skin. Jensen arches his back and moans heavily when Jared scratches his nail around the base of Jensen's dick, and finally moves his own hand faster, twisting and squeezing the darkening shaft, thumb flicking over the head on the upstroke.

"That's good. Fuck, that's so good, sweetheart," Jared says, feeling his own dick twitch in response, the button fly of his jeans suddenly tight and stifling. Jensen's working himself, pulling, stroking, and his other, cuffed hand is wrapped around the metal of the chair, knuckles pale, and Jared kind of wishes it was safe to let him have both, watch him play with his nipples, his balls, watch him finger himself with only his spit for lube. Jensen is sucking on the gag like it's suddenly the best thing he's ever had in his mouth, the rubber wet, shiny and dark with spit, a little trickle running out of the corner of his mouth. Jared suddenly can't stop picturing his dick splitting those pink lips apart instead, sliding over Jensen's tongue and into his tight, perfect throat.

Jensen's formerly perfect hair is plastered to his head, sweat slicking his chest and his cheeks below the blindfold. He's making greedy little noises through the gag, his hips bucking up as he strips his dick, the rough, wet sound of his hand almost making Jared forget why he set Jensen to doing this in the first place.

"Stop," he rasps, remembering, but Jensen doesn't even look like he hears him, strung out with head thrown back, every muscle taut and glistening.

"Stop," Jared says again, louder and colder, getting himself under control. "Stop, Jensen. Now."

Jensen's hand stills, slowly sliding away from his lap, coming to rest still and cautious on the edge of the chair. Jared can't see his eyes, but he can tell Jensen is scared again, confused and ashamed, having done what Jared ordered him to do with such needy compliance.

Jared lets his palm rest over his dick for a moment, reining himself in before walking back over to the chair, handcuff key in hand. He doesn't say a word as he detaches Jensen's other hand from the chair, as he cuffs his wrists back together again and frees his legs. As he reaches over the back of Jensen's head and unties his blindfold.

Jensen blinks owlishly at first, eyes getting used to the light. They're a bright, wet green, red-rimmed and puffy, and Jensen's eyelashes flutter as he darts a quick, furtive glance at Jared. He looks like he wants to say something, but doesn't know how, and Jared isn't planning on taking off the gag just yet. He picks up Jensen's discarded suspenders instead, lifts them up and fingers the smooth material, testing the stretch and give. They're not very elastic; Jensen, with his love for well-made suits, opted for boxcloth instead of synthetic, having no idea how pleased Jared would be by this little discovery.

Jensen sits, silent and still, as Jared comes over with the looped straps in hand, as he winds them around Jensen's throat, holding onto the ends like a leash.

"Up," he says. Jensen obeys, standing on shaky legs, lets Jared lead him over to the sofa in the corner. Slowly, demonstratively, Jared undoes the buttons of his own jeans, one by one, then pulls down Jensen's shorts in one sudden tug.

Jensen's ass is as perfect as the rest of him, the underwear and the weave of the chair having left stark reddened marks on the pale cheeks. Jared traces one, feeling the raised line of skin, and Jensen shivers. Lets Jared pull him down onto his lap, bare ass straddling Jared's unmistakably hard cock.

Jensen's cuffed hands are pressing uncomfortably into his stomach, but Jared still pulls him closer, holds onto him hard with one arm while the other grips the end of the suspender strap and starts to wind it tighter.

"You know how many people die like this every year? Well, not quite like this, but I think you're getting the picture," he whispers, rubbing his nose against the warm, delicate shell of Jensen's ear. "You know, the ones who try this solo, tie themselves up a little too hard, pull on the noose a little too much. Get it so they can't free themselves in time, choke to death before they even get to come. Cops try to call it suicide, but it never looks quite right, and there's always someone who tells. Chatty hotel maid, ex wife, ex boyfriend, ex girlfriend, talking about how kinky the poor fucker was, how dirty, the things he made them do before doing himself in. Oh, that's good, sweetheart, so good. Keep moving, just like that," he sighs as Jensen starts to struggle, the head of Jared's dick riding the crack of Jensen's hot, wriggling ass.

Jensen gurgles, the strap of the suspenders choking him, cutting each breath short, shorter, and he's got to be feeling his chest burning by now. He moves faster, more frantic, trying his hardest to push off of Jared's lap.

He can't.

"What's that? You tryin' to say something?" Jared asks, loosening his grip on the strap for a moment to reach for the fasten to Jensen's gag and pull it open. Jensen coughs, gulping down air, straining against Jared's arm, pushing his cuffed hands into Jared harder, like the small bite of the steel against Jared's stomach can make him loosen his hold.

"You can make as much noise as you want now, Jensen. As much as you can, anyway," Jared allows, and tightens the strap again. He's close, the burn building for hours, ever since he pushed Jensen into his trunk, and it's all bubbling to the surface now, his balls tight and full, his dick sliding into the sweaty-slick heat between Jensen's thighs.

Jensen kicks at him with his heels, squirming desperately, and Jared lets him have another quick taste of air, and another, before he pulls on the strap, and Jensen wheezes _please_ and _don't_. He's so close he can smell it, taste it, the electric pulse running through his veins, and he lets go of the strap and reaches for Jensen's dick instead, jacks him fast and graceless as he bites down hard on Jensen's shoulder.

"I don't want to die," Jensen moans, "that's not what I paid for," but Jared can't stop now, the taste of Jensen sharp on his tongue, a blaze of white exploding behind his eyelids. He feels Jensen come into his hand like an aftershock, and collapses against the back of the couch, loose and exhausted, before the words make sense.

When they do, he thanks his lucky stars that Jensen had the wits to crawl across the floor instead of staying close enough for Jared to reach the straps still wrapped around his bruised neck.

"What the hell did you just say?" he growls, the relaxed weakness of orgasm replaced by a dark red rage. "Did you just fucking say you paid for this to happen to you?"

Jensen's trying to steady himself with cuffed hands, twisting to look at the angry purple bite deep in the meat of his shoulder.

"I thought you'd know," he says, still short of breath. "I thought -- that's how it works. They tell you who the order comes from, so you know how to play it."

"How to play it? Sorry to say, but you got HPM's resident improv artist, Mr. Ackles," Jared says humorlessly. "And I've never been hired to be someone's extreme jerk off fantasy before."

"Could've fooled me," Jensen shrugs, flinching as he gently tugs on the end of the suspender strap. "Shit, that hurts. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"What the fuck is wrong with me?" Jared laughs, sharp and unpleasant. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Normal people, they want something out of the ordinary, they go rock climbing. White water rafting. S&amp;M clubs, for god's sake. Have you maybe tried one of those?"

"More than one," Jensen says, uncoiling the rest of the strap. "Didn't work. I could always just safeword if I felt like it, and I didn't want to be able to back out. Harris said she'd guarantee safety, but not anything else, and shit -- were you really just going to -- going to -- "

"I'm not a goddamn assassin," Jared bites out, and buttons his jeans. "I have lines." He throws the handcuff key across the floor, and idly watches Jensen search around for his underwear, grab his crumpled up trousers from the bathroom. Jensen's dick is half-hard again, another adrenaline rush, and Jared sighs, remembering the ruined suit jacket, and takes off his overshirt and lobs it in the direction of Jensen's face.

"Can you just -- take me back?" Jensen says awkwardly, buttoning up the shirt. The sleeves are too long, the shoulders too wide. Jensen's not exactly drowning in it, but it does look walk-of-shame awkward, and for a moment, Jared entertains the thought of making him walk it. Give him back his wallet, his watch, shove him outside and let him find his own way back to his car.

In the end, he doesn't. He runs through two red lights and doesn't bother slowing down for a blinking yellow as he drives across town, wanting nothing more than to get Jensen Ackles out of his car and out of his life, go home, and go to sleep.

"That's my car right over there. Which, right, you know already," Ackles says, pushing open the car door. Jared doesn't know if he tries to say anything else, because he takes off right away, and doesn't look back.

Finally at his rental apartment on the corner of First and A, he picks up his cell phone and leaves an angry, loud _fuck you_ on Harris's voicemail. He takes off his boots, his jeans, and doesn't bother setting the alarm clock before he gets in bed.

The impatient trill of his phone wakes him at eight, and he grabs blindly at his nightstand, determined to give Harris another resounding _fuck you_. Jared doesn't recognize the number on the display, local area code but nothing else familiar, and security procedure says he probably shouldn't answer, but curiosity gets the better of him.

"Jared Padalecki?" a familiar, raspy voice asks through the receiver, and Jared jolts fully, completely awake.

"How did you get this number? Shit, how did you even get my name?"

"Come on, Jared," Jensen Ackles says. "I can afford to hire you for my own _extreme jerk off fantasy_. Ergo, I can afford to find you. Listen, I want to employ your services again."

"I see," Jared says cautiously, but his mind conjures up naked Jensen almost right away, the dark, bruised lines from the strap winding around his throat like a necklace.

"I was thinking something off the books. A private arrangement. Leave Harris out of it," Jensen says. "I kind of maybe want to learn how much you can make me bleed before I pass out. Or we could just start by having coffee, or something. Whichever sounds better. You game?"

"I'll think about it," Jared promises, hand already wrapping around the handle of his favorite knife. He knows he's probably going to do more than think about it, though. Because he's pretty sure he doesn't want anyone else seeing Ackles -- Jensen -- the way he has.

"We could always do both," Jensen says, and that's it.

"Sold," says Jared. "Pick you up same as last night?"


End file.
